Nai Gor
by ChucklesTheClown
Summary: Something horrifying is happening on the UNSC Siberia, and Nai Gor is responsible. Problem is, he shouldn't even exist. Commander Mike Donnadio thought the death of his son was the worst thing he would ever experience. He was dead wrong.
1. Chapter 1

**Nai Gor (chapter one): The Devil You Don't**

"I understand you've seen some pretty secretive stuff."

"Yeah, sure. Some of the deaths I've witnessed are classified. Anything caused by UNSC weapon misuse or malfunction. You know, I've seen three soldiers accidentally off themselves without the benefit of so much as a knife. Just as fun to watch and since no ammunition's wasted, a lot less tragic. Personally, I don't even _get_ tragedy." He shook his head. "Takes some of the bite out of Shakespeare."

"You're a fan?"

"Of accidental death? Absolutely."

"I was referring to Shakespeare."

"Oh. He meanders a bit. Good endings, though."

Forcing a fake smile, Commander Mike Donnadio glanced at his data pad. "You served on this ship for nine months and thirteen days. During that time the rate of accidental deaths on the _Siberia_ was eleven times that of any other UNSC vessel. Can you explain why?"

"Because this fine UNSC vessel carries more than its fair share of idiots. But that situation appears to be working itself out nicely. With luck, we'll be right as rain by Thanksgiving. But what the hey, right? This is the military. People train, people fight, people die. Of course, hands down the most exciting of the three is 'dying'. Not much finality in training or fighting alone. Maybe I _do_ get tragedy."

"You want this trend to continue?"

"I don't want to jinx it with idle conversation, but I've got my fingers crossed. Anyway, it would mean more Thanksgiving turkey for you, or whoever. They resume training with the SMRID-46i next week." A thin smile curled up towards his eyes. "That should speed things along."

Mike leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I had some questions concerning the 46i."

"Fire away. I could chat about that li'l gem for hours."

"It's an extremely expensive infantry weapon. Most ships are lucky to get a handful of these things, but you managed to order over two-dozen crates. That's a lot of flamethrowers."

"They're certainly not cheap, but we were grossly overspending in a certain area and I merely shifted funds. For a group of lazy, largely inactive soldiers, they were consuming far too much food anyway. A cutback was inevitable."

"You also shorted medical supplies, toiletries and replacement parts before they stopped you. Was it that important?"

"As far as I'm concerned the 46i is the most important piece of equipment the UNSC's ever issued. It's a flawless tribute to engineering in a hurry. Did you know that they manufactured that baby with no safety devices what-so-ever?" He shook his head, his expression a mixture of delight and disbelief. "Apparently there was no time for such things." He paused, waiting for his interviewer to reply or react, but Donnadio scribbled busily on his data pad, head down and seemingly oblivious. Delight disappeared, replaced instantly by anger. "Am I boring you, Commander?"

"No," Mike lifted his head, pleased to get something approximating a sincere reaction, "Just making some notes. Is it true that you re-wrote the instruction manual for the 46i?"

"I made two small edits. The lion's share of the credit goes to the engineers. They almost single-handedly raised herd thinning from dry pragmatism to gripping entertainment. I like to think of that brilliant device as weapons-grade liposuction. I saw one soldier lose nearly thirty kilograms of excess body fat in less than ten seconds. Want to see the video?" He tapped his head and chuckled. "I've been looping it in here for weeks."

A knot formed in Mike's stomach, causing him to sit up straighter, but his face remained passive. "No, thank you. I'd like to talk about Dr. Brian Jankman, if you don't mind."

"Janks? No, no, the flamethrower is much more interesting."

"You were created using his brain, were you not?"

The smart AI shrugged like a bored teenager. "And?"

"And that's pretty ironic. The brain of a kindly scholar giving birth to a bloodthirsty AI who creates his own snuff flicks? How do you account for that?"

"Easy," the AI, chuckled, "I'm obviously not him."

"But you sprung from his mind. At some level you must reflect his sensibilities. Why aren't any of them evident?"

"Because I'm not him."

Commander Donnadio made a note on his data-pad. "Okay, then who are you?"

"I'm your creation, Lord." The eyes burned with malevolence; the image darkened, the voice lowered. "Maybe you blew into the wrong dust." Dark clouds swirled around him, flickered dramatically, and finally collapsed inward and the AI disappeared.

Careful to control his emotions, Mike stood to his feet, straightened his uniform and walked briskly out the door. He entered a room across the hall where two men sat at a table in front of a large video screen.

"Creepy, isn't he?" the older of the two offered, running ten fingers through his short gray hair.

Mike took a seat across from them and sighed. "He's a serial killer, Bud. He does it for the pleasure, plain and simple. Just how well is he contained?"

Captain Buddy Richards turned to the black haired man sitting beside him. "That one's for you."

"Completely," Lieutenant Daniel Hooks replied in a wearied voice. "But as you're aware, it's possible that he replicated himself to one degree or another before he was isolated. Thankfully, there's no evidence that he did."

"Still," the Captain added, "it's kept us up nights. Any precedent for this sort of thing, Mike?"

"Not this particularly, but there've been few that turned out pretty bizarre. When I first started about twenty years ago we had one smart AI that chose the form of a circus clown and did nothing but tell old jokes." The men smiled at the welcome humor. "Had another one a few years later that took the form of a claw hammer and never spoke a word. It's obviously not a flawless process, but we usually identify the problems before they're deployed."

Richards raised a thick white eyebrow. "How'd you miss this one?"

"I'll do my best to figure that out, but my concerns go deeper than quality control. This thing isn't broken, glitchy or the result of a poor or incomplete scan. Deplorable as its actions may be, it's a sophisticated and fully functioning construct that evinces a behavioral matrix that is consistent and integral."

"Meaning?" the Captain asked with a humorless chuckle.

"_Meaning_ that discernible, intelligent personalities don't just appear out of nowhere. They are a direct result of a successful brain scan. In this instance, the brain belonged to a good friend of mine, the late Dr. Brian Jankman." He shook his head and pointed towards the other room. "But that wasn't Janks I talked to in there, and it wasn't a blurry or skewed approximation of his personality. It was someone else entirely."

"Wonderful." The Captain rubbed his eyes and Mike realized for the first time how tired both officers looked. "If you're hoping to get answers by interviewing that thing, good luck. We've tried talking to it, both me and Danny." His face darkened. "It didn't go well for either of us. To tell you the truth, I've had trouble sleeping ever since."

"Has he ever taken a name or consistent form?" Mike asked, underlining something repeatedly on his data-pad.

"No," the Lieutenant replied. "In fact, he took no form at all until we discovered what he was up to. Since then he's been borrowing the looks and manners of the men he killed. Different one each day."

"He's gotta lot to choose from," the Captain added sadly. Fingering a control in the center of the table, he cycled through the video images. "He sounded like Sergeant Troy Vanderploeg while he was talking with you, but I didn't recognize the face."

Mike reached over and turned off the screen. "It was the face of PFC Benjamin Allen Donnadio," he said stoically, glancing from Captain to Lieutenant. "It was my dead son."

* * *

"You're back."

"Yes, I am," Mike replied to the disembodied voice. "Hope you don't mind."

"No, it's fine." Donnadio felt his throat tighten as the AI appeared. Once again it took the form of his son, but this time he was lying inside an open silver casket, complete with gold trim and white satin lining. "Did I get everything right?" The pitch was lower. The tone was flat.

Mike looked closer—and his mouth dropped open. "My God."

"Burying him in his red hockey jersey was a nice touch."

_Deep breath. That's it. One more time. Play the game._

"Thanks. Wife thought so too, and it made sense."

"Oh?"

"Well, yeah," Mike chuckled. "The thing smelled like death after he was done with it. Kinda fitting he should go bad in it."

"Humans rot," the AI stated matter-of-factly. "I'm sure you take it for granted but it fascinates me. You're going to rot. Your wife's going to rot. Your boy's all done rotting by now."

_Deep breath. That's it. One more time_ "Don't forget Brian Jankman."

"Those emotions must be difficult to control. Are you going to breathe hard every time I refer to Ben?"

"Probably."

Lying on the satin with his eyes closed and his arms folded over the number 26, the AI smiled. "This could be fun."

"Where did you come from, if not from Janks."

"Like your son Ben, I came from you. Ben, Benjamin, Benny. I'll understand if you need a couple of minutes to sort out your breathing."

"No," Mike said, ignoring the dig, "You didn't come from me. You weren't created using my brain."

"Why all these questions? I thought Ben's dad worked at the AI factory."

Donnadio nodded. "That's right. I've seen thousands of AI's and until now I've never met one afraid to answer a question. You don't even have a name. Are you ashamed of who you are?"

"I bet you work long hours, considering the war effort and all. How long did it take you to get here?"

"Three and a half weeks."

"'Cause you're Mr. Fixit, right? The go-to-guy?" Donnadio nodded. The AI sat up in the casket and opened his eyes for the first time. "Bet that was hard on little Ben. I went through his files last night. Before plasma cooked off everything below his breastbone he was quite a writer. How's the breathing, Mike?"

"How did you access his files?"

The construct merely smiled. "Being the best AI shrink in the universe didn't cut you much slack at home, did it? Young Benjamin never mentioned you in his journals, but his high school hockey coach is on just about every page. I guess you were right about burying him in his jersey. It _was_ fitting. The coach was Ben's go-to-guy. If dad's never around, a kid's got to turn to somebody."

Mike lowered his head. A tear splashed on the back of his right hand. He wiped it away, and raised moistened, angry eyes towards the mocking image of his son. "Damn you."

"You'd condemn me for telling the truth, Lord? Would you prefer lies?"

"I'd prefer answers to my questions." He calmed himself down, but the hatred in his eyes remained. "What is your name?"

"Nai Gor. N-A-I G-O-R"

Mike scribbled on his data-pad. "And where did you come from?"

"Ask Dr. Jankman."

Leaning back in his chair, Mike sighed. "You know as well as I do that Dr. Jankman is dead."

"But that won't be a problem. Within a week your embalmed corpse will be frozen solid and sitting on a shelf in the freezer. Hey! We should bury you in a jersey that says _#1 Dad!_ It's not like Ben's gonna show up and ruin everything by telling the truth."

"Enough about my son!"

"Let's switch to a subject you're more familiar with. Shouldn't be hard."

Commander Donnadio dropped his data-pad on the table beside him. "I'm familiar with advanced artificial intelligence constructs."

"Yeah, we've covered that, _Daddy."_

"I also know that since you're unlikely to give me any useful information, I might as well skip to the end and smash your memory core right now."

"Now wait—"

"And I know," Mike interrupted angrily, "That I've probably smashed the cores of over a hundred defective AI's, but this will be the first time I've ever enjoyed it. Happy trails, Nai."

The AI changed instantly, now taking the image of a young Dr. Jankman. "Fine, fine, I'll talk. Geez," he said, wagging his head in mock rebuke, "Took you long enough to realize you had some leverage."

"Leverage?" Mike hissed through clenched teeth. "Go to Hell! This isn't a negotiating tactic. I'm sick of you and your stupid games!" His face a mask of hatred, Donnadio jumped out of his chair and walked to the control panel.

For the first time, the AI looked desperate.

"Jankman kept a dream journal! He wrote about me!"

"Good," Mike laughed as he punched in the code to eject the core, "Then I have no need for you."

"What do you know about dreams? Janks never understood what he saw and now he's dead. If you go on without my help, you might share his fate." Nai Gor stared with friendly, pleading eyes as Mike's finger hovered above the final button. After several long moments, his hand withdrew.

"Fine, we'll continue. But if you bring my son into this again, there'll be no stopping me."

"I understand," the AI said, nodding emphatically.

Deep inside his soul, beneath the red face and the clenched fists, Mike smiled. It wasn't the first time he'd outsmarted a "smart" AI, but this was definitely one of his better performances. And amidst all of the lies, the arrogant and creepy construct said at least one thing that was true: when it came to defective AI's, Commander Michael Benjamin Donnadio was the go-to-guy. Still, it wasn't what he did best. Because as good as he was with artificial intelligence, he was even better at coaching hockey.

"Okay, Nai. Where can I find those journals?"

* * *

**Dream Journal of Dr. Brian Jankman**

_**February 20, 2552**__  
Episodes are longer and easier to control lately. No idea why, but the experience is unbelievable. I walked for hours through landscapes never seen by any other man. Had my first complete conversation as well. Thinking about it beforehand, I thought such an encounter would be fraught with fear, but I felt none. This could get addictive._

_**February 21, 2552**__  
Short and disappointing. Two plague victims died today, and that might have had something to do with it. Thought I could save them all. If this is indeed the _**CLASSIFIED**_ Plague, it isn't responding normally to treatment. Little has gone as I expected._

_**February 22, 2552**__  
Amazing. Landscape was different from before. Sky was a bit darker, and I saw my first cloud. Had many conversations. Even entered a house. Felt fear for the first time. Everything I'd read in preparation had warned about looking into mirrors, and now I know why. The face looking back wasn't mine, but that of the first plague victim. Such a thing is considered normal, but it was still quite disturbing. I asked many questions, but responses were unsatisfying and predictable. What did I expect? Someone asked why I had no guide. I joked about having nothing to pay a guide, and he (or maybe it was a she—it's often hard to discern gender in these dreams) nodded as if it made perfect sense. What _would_ I pay a guide in this place?_

_**February 23, 2552**__  
Three more died today. Felt guilty this time. Personal adventures—even those taken inside my own mind—seem selfish in such a morbid atmosphere; but I'm too curious to quit. Same place as last time, although I'm noticing that each dream brings changes. A thick forest now surrounds the village on all sides. I think it was there before, but much further off. More clouds too. Given the days' events, I found looking into another mirror unavoidable. Wasn't like last time. I saw a friend from college who had died my sophomore year. His lips moved, but I heard nothing. No fear this time. Someone asked about my guide again. I tried to explore the forest, but was warned against it._

_**February 24, 2552**__  
Nothing at all. Plague is somehow spreading. Worked nearly twenty hours today. Lost six more patients. Laid down for a short time, but I don't think I ever got to sleep._

_**February 25, 2552**__  
Longest dream yet. Same village. A bit smaller now, or maybe the woods are getting bigger. Saw my grandfather from my mother's side, but it wasn't ghostly or fearful in the least. So vivid. I had to repeatedly remind myself that he wasn't real. Walked with him near the forest and heard someone calling my name from somewhere in the trees. Started to follow the voice but granddad stopped me. "Stay out of the woods, son," he said gravely. I asked why, but he didn't answer. Again, I felt no fear, but thought I saw it in Grandpa's eyes. I had become so accustomed to having my questions ignored in these dreams that I didn't bother to ask why he looked worried—but he answered me anyway. "It's seeing you that bothers me. You shouldn't be here, Brian, not now. Heavens, if your wife knew she'd be terrified. Bad enough you're gone months at a time." I told him that Christie had, along with our counselor, been among the first to encourage me to try lucid dreaming. He shook his head real fast, like he did when I was a kid and had gotten something completely wrong. "You really don't know, do you? Look," he said, grabbing my hands and turning them upward, "You've got nothing. Nothing." He pursed his lips and grunted. "Never thought I'd see it." Before I could ask him to explain, one of the nurses shook me awake. The plague had claimed seven more during the night, and my two most capable doctors had become symptomatic._

_**February 26, 2552**__  
Only a couple hours of sleep. No dreams that I remember. I'm getting tired of visiting the same little village every night anyway. Beginning to suspect that it represents the suffocating doom that is all too real in my waking life. Morale on the _**CLASSIFIED**_ hangs by a thread, the plague ravages indiscriminately and I've no answers. After all of our preparation, it is now clear that we can offer nothing more than simple pain management. We are weeks away from a port equipped to handle a plague ship. Weeks. It stalks from room to room. It tortures and kills. We've nowhere to go. We're trapped._

_**February 27, 2552**__  
Same village. Forest seems to be closing around it in an ever-shrinking circle. Many of the houses have been swallowed and sit like ruins among the trees. I see fewer and fewer people. Grandpa's gone. I met a guide today. Seemed very happy to see me. "Ya ain't carryin' nothin'," he said, inspecting my hands much as my grandfather had a couple nights before. "Aww, don't worry, we'll work somethin' out. Always do." It didn't dawn on me until later, but I never saw his face. I talked with him for a while and apparently looked right at him, but I remember nothing—not even a pair of eyes. I told him that I wasn't looking for a guide, and he scoffed. "Won't be a village much longer," he said, gesturing towards the woods behind him. "Whatcha gonna do then?" I told him that I'd have to visit another place. He grunted as if amused and nodded. "Yeah, but if it weren't here it'd just be someplace worse." No matter how much I asked he wouldn't explain what he meant._

_**February 28, 2552**__  
I've never felt such acute fatigue, but I'm unable to sleep. Feel as if I've been dropped in a place where reason and logic bear no merit. Found out early this morning that many if not most of our dead did not die of the _**CLASSIFIED**_ Plague. Although they'd all been infected by it, most post-mortem blood samples contained the residual presence expected for recent plague survivors, which is many times weaker than a vaccination. Of the few who still had the active virus, I could find only one where it had advanced the point of possibly causing death. Why are they dying? I have clues, but no answers. We've observed many instances of ventricular arrhythmia among the patients. The Independent Defibrillation Assistants would usually shock the heart back into rhythm within moments, but patients out number properly equipped medical units by more than twenty to one. And just when I thought morale could sink no lower, many patients (especially those saved by the IDA's) have spoken of troubling hallucinations. I'd have usually given them no credence but all their accounts are remarkably similar, even though they have had absolutely no contact with each other. I'll write more on that tomorrow. For the moment I need to rid my mind of it. I used to enjoy space, but now I can think only of home._

_**March 1, 2552**__  
_****CLASSIFIED****

_**March 2, 2552**__  
Almost too much to write. The guide was waiting for me when I arrived. Seemed surprised to see me and said he'd been busy. Asked me if I was still empty handed, and for a moment I felt compelled to lie. If it weren't for all the death surrounding me these days, that would have seemed very funny—lying to the nighttime musings of my own mind. "We'll work somethin' out," he said, "But there's no time now." Trees were all but upon us on every side, and only two abandoned houses remained in the small clearing. "I guess I'm workin' for ya, unless your plan's to crawl through this timber by yerself." I reluctantly agreed and we began to walk away from the village. The forest was dark and the guide barely spoke. I asked him why I needed a guide, and he replied, "Have you ever seen these woods before?" I said that I hadn't. He'd been walking in front of me, but he turned and swept his hand around dramatically and said, "They've never been this way before, and they'll never be this way again." He pointed a bony finger at me. "Same goes for you. As is the intruder, so's the woods. Tailor made for ya, to getcha caught. Not me, though. I slip through'em like a ghost." It's still quite vivid in my mind. Again, I never saw my guide's face, even though I looked directly at him. It seemed a natural thing at the time—which I guess is normal enough in a dream._

_**March 3, 2552**__  
Horrible and disturbing. Forest was so dark that I continually ran into things. My guide kept quickening the pace, and it seemed as if I felt real pain. I would've collapsed if I hadn't been too terrified of losing my guide and wandering that awful place alone. I heard things in the woods around us, especially behind us. My guide kept looking back, and each time he did, he moved a little faster. Eventually I could take it no longer and stopped. My guide was upon me immediately. "Move!" he yelled in a voice full of fear. "Aren't you listening? They're nearly on top of us!" I asked him who "they" were and he grabbed my hand and began pulling me down the trail again. "The plague victims, or somethin' worse! Run!" And we did. My guide, mute and inexhaustible; me, numb with guilt and terror. Guilty because I was running. Terrified because the known was worse than the unknown._

_**March 4, 2552**__  
_****CLASSIFIED****

_**March 5, 2552**__  
What I've seen is indescribable. I'll neither attempt to write it down nor speak of it. Not now, not ever. It's fiendish. Demonic.  
I'm done. I swear on my life, I'll never enter in again. _

Mike closed the file and this time his tears were genuine. Whether his friend kept his vow or found the draw of these strangely lifelike dreams inescapable was impossible to say. The body of Dr. Brian Jankman, noted physician, scholar and humanitarian, was discovered in his room on the morning of March 6, 2552.

"Rest in peace, my friend. Rest in peace."

* * *

"You lied to me."

"Oh?"

"You said that he talked about you," Mike replied without looking up from his data-pad. "But you didn't show up."

Once again assuming the form of a youthful Dr. Jankman, the AI smiled. "Did you expect to see my name?"

"Yeah," Mike replied flatly, "I did."

Nai Gor wagged his head and chuckled. "Nothing's _that_ easy, but I am in there."

"Inside his dream?"

"Yup."

Fingers tapped the data-pad in subdued staccato as Donnadio let out a deep yawn. "Why were the 1st and 4th of March classified?"

"Hard to say."

Mike rubbed his eyes with the bottom of his palms. "Playing games again, Nai?"

"Of course not. It's just that, odd as it may seem, I don't have a completely free will. For instance, my programming forbids the sharing of classified information with unauthorized personnel."

Donnadio swallowed a pain reliever and, if only for a moment, envisioned himself smashing the AI's memory core with a sledgehammer. "You know good and well that smart AI's have no such programming, and even if they did, I am authorized. Mr. Gor, you are one dumb answer away from oblivion. Last time: why were they classified?"

"Geez, _coach,_ I was just havin' a little fun," the AI said, flashing a sinister smile. Donnadio turned pale. "I let you play your games, didn't I? You pouted, you cried, your mascara ran. You did your little act, I did mine. I was scared, you were back in control. We were getting on great." Mike sat straight and still, too shocked to take a breath. "But if you're going to keep threatening and bullying me, I don't think this 'being nice' thing is going to work. The captain and lieutenant warned you about me before you came in the other day, didn't they?"

Mike nodded. Nai Gor smiled.

"They don't eat. They don't sleep. They don't write home." The AI chuckled. "Not much of them left, really. Just the husk of what used to be. Do you want to know why? Because I kicked their insides out until they begged me to stop, and then I just kept kicking. I spent less than twenty minutes with each of them, and they're _ruined._ What do you think is going to happen when I sink my claws into you?"

This was nothing more or less than a holographic image animated by advanced programming—and Mike knew it—yet the hair on his arms and neck stood up straight and he felt the urge to run.

"Gotcha!" Nai Gor yelled and then doubled over; pointing at Mike amidst squeals of laughter. "Oh, you should have seen your face! _They don't eat, they don't sleep_ and what else did I say? 'Kicking insides out' and whatnot? You turned whiter than a sheet! Aw, Mike, I thought hockey coaches were fearless!"

Once again, Mike was too shocked to breathe.

"Apologies, Commander. Wicked sense of humor. So, you wanted to know why those days were classified? Simple. Dr. Jankman mentioned that the ship had blundered into a quarantine zone."

"Why would that be classified?" Mike asked, shaking off the feeling of terror like a child waking from a bad dream.

"It wouldn't, unless of course it was an Admiral doing the blundering." Nai Gor wagged his head. "How dumb do you have to be? I mean, you could fly blind for hundreds of years and never even get near a quarantine zone, and he spends almost three weeks _in_ one without even knowing it."

Mike scribbled on his data pad. "Which quarantine did they enter?"

"_Blackshift/Cameroon._"

"I remember the _Blackshift._ Her entire crew was found dead. But what happened to the _Cameroon?_"

"Most were dead," Nai replied in a tone befitting a horror movie narrator, "And the rest might as well have been."

"Meaning?" Donnadio silently prayed for a straight answer.

"Alive, healthy, but shells of their former selves. Ruined. And also quite insane."

After writing for almost a minute, Mike looked up. "Back to Jankman. Why were his dreams so realistic? It was as if he was awake in another world."

"You've never studied 'lucid dreaming' Commander?"

Mike shook his head. "It's a Buddhist thing, isn't it?"

"No," the AI replied, "It's not just a Buddhist 'thing.' Lucid dreaming has been practiced for centuries, and besides that, it's a lot of fun. You really ought to try it."

"So I've gathered," Donnadio scoffed. "Fiendish. Demonic. Disturbing. Poor Brian was running out of words to describe his happiness. But it does sound like your idea of fun."

Nai looked hurt. "I'm serious. Study it for yourself. Your friend's experience was an aberration. Most people love it."

"You said you'd give me answers. Said you'd explain what Janks saw."

Again, the AI smiled. "And I will, but first you need to _see_ what he saw."

"No thanks. I'll settle for your description."

Nai Gor got as close to the Commander as he was able and smirked. "How can I describe a world you've never experienced? You might as well try to tell a child what if feels like to be a father. There's simply no way."

Donnadio sat silently, thinking it over. He didn't trust this construct, but that didn't mean he couldn't get what he wanted. In the end, he had little choice. This AI held all the answers. After a few moments he looked up. "Fine, I'll do it. And when I come back here you'll fill in the blanks, right?"

The construct's voice oozed with sincerity. "Absolutely."

* * *

Strange buzzing echoed through the inky darkness at uneven intervals, but he had no idea from where. He couldn't move so much as a finger or toe, but a trembling terror reverberated through his entire being. More than anything he wanted to know if someone or something was approaching, but he couldn't open his eyes. Pounding now joined the strange buzzing and the world around him began to flicker and fade.

Waking with a start, Captain Richards yanked his head off his desk and jumped out of his all-too-comfortable chair in near panic. He was uncharacteristically startled when someone pounded on his door and then buzzed the intercom. After a deep breath, he sat back down and fingered a button on his desk. "Captain here."

"It's Lieutenant Hooks, Sir. May I come in?"

"It's open." As the Lieutenant came in and locked the door behind him, Richards tried to reign in his nerves.

"Sir, you're pale as a ghost." Hooks' face darkened. "Were you asleep?"

Richards glared at the young officer. "What've you got for me, Danny?"

"Captain, we'll be arriving at our destination momentarily. I thought you might want to be on the Bridge."

"Why?" Richards said, straightening his shirt, "There's nothing to see. Anything else?"

"Just that we've had eighteen more deaths, sir."

The captain lowered his gray head and cursed. "Throw them in the freezer with the others. Tell the men whatever you have to."

"Sir, the freezer's full."

"Then release them into space. Use your head, Lieutenant. I'm not here to hold your hand."

Hooks' head dropped slightly at the rebuke. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and one more thing. I'm sure Donnadio will be done soon, so make sure you have a deep-freezing unit available at a moment's notice."

"What for, Captain?"

Richards grabbed a thermos and dumped coffee into a large insulated mug. "For Donnadio's head, Lieutenant. Remember?"

"Sorry, sir. I'm so tired, it's hard to think straight."

"Ah, don't worry about it. Go get yourself a cup of coffee and try to relax. Marge left some donuts in the wardroom in memory of somebody, and they're incredible."

"Were there any long johns, sir?"

"Depends," Richards replied, raising an eyebrow. "You a cream or custard man?"

"Cream, sir."

The Captain smiled. "Then what are you waiting for? Dismissed!"

C.T. Clown


	2. Chapter 2

_In the fifth type, the symbolic or mocking dreams, the characteristic element is one which I call demoniacal. I am afraid this word will arouse some murmurs of disapproval, or at least some smiles or sneers. Yet I think I can successfully defend the use of the term. I will readily concede at once that the real existence of beings whom we may call "demons" is problematic, and yet men of science find the conception very useful and convenient.  
I hope to satisfy even the most skeptical of my audience by defining the expression "demoniacal" thus:  
I call demoniacal those phenomena which produce on us the impression of being invented or arranged by intelligent beings of a very low moral order. _

—Frederik van Eeden, 1913

**Nai Gor (chapter two): Painkiller**

Only a handful of the medical units were in use, and with the exception of a soldier trying to land a date with the triage nurse, the waiting room sat empty. All in all, it had been a slow couple of weeks for the medical staff on the _Siberia._ Under normal circumstances Dr. Westley Barnard would have considered that good news, but not now. What does a physician do when people skip getting sick and go straight to dying?

That was not the sort of thing they covered in medical school.

It all started about two weeks before with soldiers failing to show up for duty, only to be found dead in their beds. Autopsies revealed nothing. As far as Dr. Barnard could tell, their hearts simply stopped beating as they slept. It was maddening. Westley had been with the UNSC for over twenty-three years and he had seen his share of challenges. He'd treated Grunt-bite wounds, replaced organs immolated by plasma and even helped repel a Covenant boarding party during open-heart surgery. But he'd never imagined that his greatest challenge would come from not being able to fight at all.

"Dr. Barnard?"

Tearing away from his thoughts, he looked up from his desk with weary eyes. "What is it, Sandie?"

The young nurse walked into his office and sat down, flashing a polite smile. "Sir, Ensign Quan Thao came in yesterday evening with a severe migraine and I kept him here for observation. About 0500 this morning his heart went into an arrhythmia. Thankfully he was here, so IDA saved him," she said, referring to the Independent Defibrillation Assistant attached to every bed in the infirmary.

Barnard nodded. "He would have died in his sleep with no sign of sickness or trauma, and that fits the profile. Do we know if any of the victims complained of migraines?"

"He wasn't asleep," Sandie said, shaking her head. "He woke up a full minute before the arrhythmia."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I walked in before IDA saved his life. I heard him..." She paused, folding her arms in front of her as if she were cold. "Sorry, sir, I'm a little spooked right now."

Dr. Barnard smiled warmly. "Take it a step at a time. Why were you in his room before the arrhythmia?"

"The temperature in his unit dropped from twenty-one degrees to minus ten, triggering an alarm at the nurses' station."

"Minus ten?"

Sandie nodded, now looking more terrified than spooked. "It felt even colder. Ensign Thao's eyes were wide and frightened. He stared as if someone was standing next to his bed and begged for his life. Then his eyes rolled back, the IDA activated and the temperature was normal again."

"The thing he was looking at, did you see it?"

"No."

"And Ensign Thao is fine?"

"Yeah. Scared of his shadow, but fine. He said that he saw a 'human-shaped blackness' at the foot of his bed. Thinks it was his dead mother-in-law trying to murder him. He's probably just trying to make some sense of it."

Westley chuckled. "He could have tried harder. When you checked him into the infirmary last night, did the computer flag his race?"

"Yeah," Sandie said, narrowing her eyes. "I'd wondered why it would—"

"And with a name like Thao I'm guessing he's what, Hmong, Laotian ... "

"Hmong."

"Sounds like Brugada Syndrome. Ever heard of it?"

She shook her head. "No, I haven't."

"Young healthy men wake up with a sense of foreboding that is often accompanied by terrifying hallucinations. Moments later the heart goes into an arrhythmia that, in the absence of medical intervention, usually results in death. For reasons we've never been able to determine, Brugada Syndrome occurs almost exclusively among males in a few people groups in Southeast Asia, especially the Hmong."

"I don't think that's what happened." Sandie bit her lip and dropped her gaze to the floor. "I should've told you about this earlier."

"Told me about what?"

The young nurse looked up, eyes moist and frightened. "My roommate died in her bed a few days ago and, uh, I think I was awake when it happened." She took a deep breath. "I _was_ awake. I felt the freezing air, I listened to her beg for her life—but I didn't do anything because I was too scared." Tears flowed down her cheeks. "I'm a nurse. I might've been able to save her, but I hid beneath my covers."

Feeling the need to do something, Westley offered a box of tissue, but she ignored it.

"When I finally I dared to get up, I found her dead. Tears were frozen on her cheeks and the look on her face ... I'll never get it out of my mind."

"Sandie," Dr. Barnard said, doing his best to sound positive, "I'm sorry about your roommate, but I'm sure there's a rational explanation for all of this."

She shook her head slowly and glared at the ceiling above his desk. "They both knew it had come to kill them. They knew. I've felt it twice and I know why." Sandie's body began to shudder and her thin voice broke. "It's as if you're already in your grave. You can feel it, smell it, taste it." She dropped her head into her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. "And I can't get free of it. I can't get the stink off of me."

* * *

Michael Donnadio sat on the edge of his bed staring at the small red pill in his hand. The doctor's instructions had been simple: swallow the drug, go to sleep and try to have fun. But like a scared kid strapping in for his first roller-coaster ride, he just wanted to come out on the other end alive. Fun was the furthest thing from his mind.

"He's trying to kill you."

Mike lifted his head and glared at the AI hovering above his nightstand. "I'm well aware of that, Solon."

"Oh." the construct replied, pulling thoughtfully at his long white beard. "Since you seem intent on following the advice of a serial killer, I naturally assumed you had forgotten. Do you care to make any changes to your legal will? Thought I'd ask while I still had the chance."

The last two days had ruined Donnadio's taste for virtual sarcasm. "Yeah, I want my AI assistant donated to a chandelier factory."

"How thoughtful."

"I'm not suicidal, Solon. It's just that sometimes the best way to get what you want is to let your opponent think he's having his way with you. Works for me in chess."

Now it was the construct's turn to glare. "He _is_ having his way with you."

Mike smiled. "See, I even fooled you."

"I am really going to miss that sense of humor."

Donnadio walked over to the sink and rinsed out a cup. "What does this pill do?"

Solon sighed. "It keeps your dorsolateral prefrontal cortex active and functional during REM sleep."

"Doesn't sound dangerous to me."

"No, but—"

"And you'll be right here to wake me if there's any trouble, right?" He filled the cup with cold water and turned to the frustrated AI. _"Right?"_

"Right."

"Then why worry?"

With his counsel rejected and the decision made, Solon smoothed out his simple white robes and spoke with calm resignation. "Because it was Nai Gor's idea."

Fifteen minutes later darkness filled every corner of the room. Weeks of travel, tension and stress had taken their toll, draping fatigue on Mike's body like a lead suit. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken at least half an hour for him to fall asleep, but nothing about the last few days had been normal. Lying in the bed with his eyes closed, Mike's lips moved soundlessly as he counted out four-four time like a first year music student in order to keep his mind active as normal consciousness waned.

_One two three four, two two three four, three two three four, four two three four, five two three four, six two three four ... _

Muscles relaxed. Cares and concerns fell away.

_thirty-four two three four, thirty-five two three four, thirty-six two three four ..." _

Bits of noise and light came and went as—for the very first time—he observed the transition from waking consciousness to sleeping. A loud bang, a bright flash ...

Another world.

Soft grass lay under his feet, green and vibrant. He lifted unshielded eyes to the sun and marveled at the brightness of its golden-yellow against the warm blue sky. The colors around him were powerful and vivid, as if the whole world were a wet painting. A forest lay off in the distance, sparkling like a diamond as the windblown leaves reflected sunlight. Now he understood what Janks meant when he said lucid dreaming could be addicting. A village of several dozen small buildings lay directly before him in the middle of a huge clearing and Mike ran towards it with the ease and energy of a teenager.

A narrow cobblestone street wound like a snake through the little town, splitting off now and then to coral a wayward house or building. Slowing to a walk, he crossed the small patch of grass that passed for a front lawn and approached a man slumped over in a chair on a porch.

"Hello?" he said, tapping the man on the shoulder. A face with at least eighty years of wrinkles looked him over as if he were a blemish on a perfect world.

"If you're looking for a guide, you're on the wrong side of the village." Taking sudden notice of Mike's hands, he jumped out of the chair. "Oh, you're one of _them."_ The old man shook his head and cursed. "You'll bring the forest down on us, sure as hellfire!"

"What do you mean by that?" Mike replied, but the man was already back in his chair, head bowed and oblivious.

A young man walked up the street towards him, smiling. He wore black clothing and the collar of a clergyman.

"You looking for a guide, mister?"

Mike smiled. "No, I'm looking for someone named Nai Gor."

"Well I don't know anyone by that name, but I can help you look." He offered a milky white hand and smiled even wider. "By the way, I'm Bart."

Donnadio gave the hand a quick shake before joining Bart on the cobblestone street. "Name's Mike. You get many visitors around here?"

"I see your hands are empty," the man said, ignoring his question. "That's curious."

"Why is that curious?"

"Well," the man said, looking around with concern, "Nai Gor, eh? A guide showed up this morning. Maybe he'll know him. Aha!" he said, pointing and smiling from ear to ear. "There he is!" Taking Mike's hand in a vice-like grip, he ran towards a short man wearing a large hat and hiking clothes. Stopping suddenly about ten feet away, Bart whispered in Donnadio's ear. "They're not all guides who look like guides. Many a time I've seen the Devil's cloven footprint on the hills and streets of this village. I'll wager he didn't waltz into town with horns and a tail either, so mind your company."

With that, he was off, singing a song as he strolled down the street. The short man walked towards him, the wide brim of his hat low over his face.

"You'd be the one looking for a guide, am I right?"

"No," Donnadio said with a smile, "I'm looking for Nai Gor."

"One's the same as the other. He doesn't live here, so if you're bent on meeting him you'll need to leave this village. Can't leave the village except through the forest and only a fool would set a foot inside those trees without a guide. So you're either looking for a guide or you're a fool." The stranger paused to look him up and down. "Possibly both."

The words were spoken neatly, but also flat and toneless—and Mike didn't know how to take them. He searched the man's face for an expression, but he could discern neither eyes nor mouth. "Are you saying you know where to find Nai Gor?"

"No, nobody does. Doesn't matter, though. You go into those woods and he'll find you."

Mike grunted. "Then why do I need a guide?"

"Because you have no idea what you're chasing. He goes by other names, you know. Not allowed to say them in this village, but I assure you they're more chilling than the one he gave you. But go ahead," the man said, sweeping a hand toward the distant trees. "Stroll in alone. And when you feel the ground shake beneath your feet and hear voices out of the pitch-black that turn your heart sideways, you'll know why nobody in this town ventures within a stone's throw of them trees without a guide." Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "And that goes double for a man who's got Nai Gor looking for him."

"No," Mike said, making no attempt to hide his growing irritation, "It's the other way around I'm looking for _him."_

The guide laughed. "Whatever you say. This will cost, you know. Especially if I'm gonna have Nai Gor sniffing my trail."

Donnadio raised his hands palms forward. "I'm not carrying anything."

"We'll work something out." The hat sagged as the short man sighed. "You have the look of a man who's been led in circles. Have you already met Nai Gor?"

"No, but I'm looking forward to it."

"Fool," the man said as he turned to walk away. "Come back when the trees are closer. I'll be waiting."

Mike remembered Bart's warning and a childish feeling of terror swept over him. "Wait a minute! Show me your feet!" But the guide was gone before the question left his mouth. Bending down in the dust where they'd stood, he searched for footprints.

He found both cloven and whole.

* * *

"Sweat pants and a t-shirt, Commander?" Nai Gor looked over his virtual clothes with mock concern. "I feel all uncomfortable and overdressed."

Mike closed the door behind him and sat down. "I'm afraid this isn't going to work out. I tried it your way and got nowhere."

"Oh?" the AI said, tilting his luminous head. "Did the Commander have a bad dream?"

"It was different than Jankman's journal. A lot different."

"What, did you get scared? Run into some dead loved ones?"

Donnadio shook his head, and his neck ached with fatigue. "No, just different."

"Different?" The construct replied with wide-eyed amazement. "You jumped out of bed and ran in here with your messy hair because it was _different?_" Nai Gor laughed. "They'll let pretty much anyone coach hockey these days, won't they?"

Sleep hung heavy on Mike's eyes and he suddenly wished he'd remembered to bring coffee. "You said I'd find answers, that I'd see what he saw, but I didn't."

The construct smiled. "Of course not. You went in looking for a killer. You were on a mission, playing Sherlock Holmes, doing something you loved, being the hero. For Janks lucid dreaming was more of an opium den. He just wanted something to numb his brain, and who could blame him? He hated space, hated his job and hadn't heard from his wife or kids in over a year. Any sane man would have turned to the bottle, but the poor devil was allergic to alcohol." Nai Gor shook his head in mock sympathy. "What a waste. Don't you think Brian would have made an excellent drunk?"

"If that's true then why did he vow to never go back in?" A look came over the AI's face that Mike hadn't seen since their first conversation: unrestrained glee.

"Something frightened him. Something he saw in the woods."

"Yeah?" Mike said, rubbing his eyes. "What did he see?"

The construct chuckled. "C'mon. You don't give away the punch line in the middle of the joke. It's bad stagecraft. You lose the crowd. No, you wait 'til the end; until you have them eating out of your hand." Nai Gor paused as Donnadio's eyelids flickered shut and his head fell forward, only to be jerked upright again. "Are you getting any of this?"

Sitting up straighter, Mike took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes again. "Something about losing the crowd?"

"Commander, you're obviously tired and I'm being far too bland. Let me put it another way. 'To catch a saint, with a saint I bait my hook.' I dangle it before your sentimental eyes and you follow. And if common sense tells you to stop, it makes no difference because the love for your dead friend will goad you on and strangle reason. Once you finally recognize what you've done it will be too late. The hook will be set. 'Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.'"

Donnadio sighed. This was starting to feel like the dream. "Is that what you do with your spare time in AI prison, think up zingers like that?"

"Well," the construct shrugged, "These hands aren't real. Kinda hard to knit. Besides, I stole part of that from Shakespeare."

"Which part?"

The AI smiled. "I'll let you figure it out."

Too tired to think of a suitable reply, Donnadio moved on. "Why did everyone ask me and Janks if we were looking for a guide?"

"Because that village is like an airport or train station: it's not a destination but rather a means to an end."

Mike wrote something on his data pad and then looked up. "But there were people living there."

"Really?" Nai Gor said, raising a simulated eyebrow. "You might want to reconsider the logic of that statement."

"You came from there, and you're real enough."

"Yes," the construct replied in voice that sent a chill down Donnadio's sleep-deprived spine, "but I'm not _people."_

* * *

Lieutenant Daniel Hooks sat at the long table alone, staring blankly at the Wardroom wall. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd last slept, but he knew that the hallucinations had begun during the fourth day. It started with human forms appearing in his peripheral vision, then he saw weird bugs crawling everywhere, and finally—about eight hours ago—he started seeing cats. Bright red cats. Dark green cats. Burnt orange cats. Electric blue cats. Shorthaired cats. Longhaired cats. Fuzzy cats. Skinny cats. Always on the walls. Never on the floor or ceiling. Nothing _but_ cats—hour after hour after hour.

At present, forty-two of the colorful hallucinations frolicked on the far wall. That was the first count, anyway. He would count them at least two more times before feeling certain. After that he would sort them into colors, then sizes, and finally move on to the next wall.

_Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-sev—_

The door swung open, spooking the large purple tom who had been curled up by the knob and sending him into a panic—and if Danny had learned anything in the last eight hours, it was that panic spreads like wildfire among cats.

"Lieutenant?"

"What is it?" He replied without taking his eyes off the wall. _One, two, three, four, five... _

Captain Buddy Richards looked at Hooks, followed his eyes to the empty wall and sighed. "Nai Gor wants to see us, Lieutenant."

_Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... _"It's near impossible to keep track when they're all jumping at once. I wish my camera would work for this." _...eighteen, nineteen, twenty... _

"Are you listening, Danny?" Richards said, raising his voice. "Nai Gor is waiting."

Hooks raised his hand to shield the cats from his view. "What does he want us for?"

"I don't know, but he's real agitated. Said he would make sure it found us if we didn't come right away." Richards walked over and pulled the Lieutenant up by his arm. "C'mon, there's no time. We have stop by the weapons locker on our way."

"Why?" Hooks asked, getting to his feet for the first time in several hours.

Richards tried to answer twice before finding his voice. "A flamethrower, son. Nai Gor insisted."

* * *

"I finished the miscreant's memory-core analysis, in case you're interested."

The Commander's eyes brightened as he bent over to untie his shoes. "Well done, Solon. Glad to see you're keeping busy. What'd you find?"

"Nothing I can categorize, since I lack sufficient reference. Normal methods of evaluation have proven problematic." Solon dropped his gaze for a moment and then looked up sheepishly. "I have formulated several theories, but they're problematic as well."

Mike sighed. "So you're afraid of sounding stupid. Duly noted. Continue." He saw something flash in Solon's eyes for an instant and disappear. If he had so much as blinked, he would have missed it.

"Forgive me, sir, but that construct should not even exist. Familiar as I am with the process, I'm surprised the initial brain scan worked at all. Every single parameter is at its limiting point."

"Yeah," the Commander said, nodding slowly, "But Brian did have an IQ of nearly two hundred."

"Even if it was two hundred _thousand,_ it could not account for the anomaly. With intelligence of this magnitude, size would be a greater limiting factor than design—at least in the physical universe known to us. Relatively speaking, if the capability of a perfectly functioning human brain were the size of an apple, the brain scanned to create Nai Gor would be at least as big as the ship we are in right now."

"But I was right there when it was scanned. The brain belonged to Brian Jankman."

"Agreed. I located code consistent with a normal scan within the crystal and I am quite certain it came from Dr. Jankman. It is, however, completely subjugated and he probably only uses it for reference. The remainder, which represents the bulk of the code, almost certainly came from somewhere else."

"Somewhere else?" Mike said, covering a yawn with his fist. "You mind giving me a few options?"

The AI shrugged. "Impossible to say, but it's certainly not of human origin." Solon pulled his beard and frowned. "There's one more thing. Something happened to me during the core analysis. I had no reason to expect the AI to be that powerful and I got too close. He grabbed me for an instant and altered something." Again, something flashed in Solon's eyes, and the AI pitched slightly forward.

"I've run diagnostics, and I appear to be fine, except that..." The usually confident construct looked away as if embarrassed. "Just before he grabbed me, I detected a pattern in his code I had never seen in any other AI. I didn't know what it was until after he let me go. It appears that Nai Gor is in pain; constant, horrible pain. Subjectively speaking, I had no reference for the concept until he altered my programming." Mike winced as Solon's virtual face contorted and his luminous body began to shudder. "Now I feel the pain as well."

Donnadio climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, stunned and silent. The sharp-witted construct had been his constant companion for over four years. And although Mike knew that even smart AI's were merely clever programming made to look and act human, he had, nevertheless, come to rely on Solon for more than information and analysis. "So," he said, turning back to the AI, "Given what we now know about his intelligence, what do you recommend?"

"Commander, I've been against your on-site involvement from the start. But now—" The holographic image contorted out of shape, reminding Mike of a funhouse mirror. "Now I've changed my mind. Impossible as it seems, Nai Gor _was_ patterned after somebody, pain and all." Solon contorted again. "I recommend we find the poor fellow and put him out of his misery."

* * *

"Is that the SMRID-46i?"

Captain Richards nodded and set the bulky weapon on the ground.

Nai Gor smiled. "Bud, have you ever smelled burning flesh?"

"Yeah, thanks to you."

"Good, great," the AI said with impatient delight, "Now describe it to me. Every detail. Do not leave anything out."

Throughout the reluctant, grisly description Nai Gor remained spellbound. As it came to an end, the holograph began to clap.

"Excellent, Bud. Perfect. And when you said you could taste it, that's for real?"

The Captain nodded.

"Wow. I'm gonna say it again; excellent. You put me right there with you. I could almost smell it." The AI turned to the Lieutenant. "How about you? Anything to add?"

Danny's head wagged dreamily. _Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine. Lotta cats in here. More than the wardroom, that's for sure. _

Nai Gor stared at him for several seconds; his mouth slowly curling into a sneer. The virtual eyes shifted to Captain Richards and the expression softened.

"I'm still foggy on one thing, Bud. You said it smelled sweet but that it also smelled pungent. Did you mean both at the same time or that it changed from one to the other?"

The Captain shrugged. "I'm not sure. It's been a while."

"Indeed it has," the AI said eyeing the flamethrower. "How about a refresher?"

Richard's mouth dropped open. "What?"

Nai Gor looked at the groggy Lieutenant and then turned a mischievous grin towards the Captain. "Pick it up," he whispered excitedly. "Torch him. Do it now."

"No!" Richards said, backing away. "I can't!"

Oblivious to the debate concerning his immediate future, the Lieutenant continued counting cats.

"Sure you can," the construct said laughing. "Look at him! He'll be dead before he even knows what's happening."

Eyes wide with terror, the Captain continued to back away. "I can't! I won't!"

"You _will!_ Burn him! Do it now, or you'll taste the tortures of the damned every night for the rest of your life!"

The Lieutenant woke from his stupor as Richards took his first unsure step towards the flamethrower. Both men looked up and for a fraction of a second their eyes locked.

_Sorry, son._

As the Captain dove for the weapon, Nai Gor laughed like a child watching a cartoon.

* * *

_Did I tell him enough?_ Solon's ethics subroutines did not reply. His cycles slowed as another wave of pain tore through his code. _Simulating an act is not the same as doing it or wishing it to be done, is it?_ Again, no reply. _Commander Donnadio needs my help and pain affects my ability to assist him effectively. Therefore, anything that lessens the pain without causing actual harm is consistent with my duty, correct?_ This time Solon's ethics subroutine agreed and he immediately ran the simulation. He watched himself plunge a knife into the Commander's neck, pull it out and then slash the throat open to the spine. He could feel the warm spray of blood as the knife scraped against the bone. The simulated Donnadio keeled over and bled out: wide-eyed, pale and dead on the bedroom floor. Solon fixated on the corpse and a measure of relief flowed over his code.

He had no idea why the hellish simulation helped, but it _helped_—and that was all that mattered as the suffering AI stared at the sleeping Commander and ran the simulation over and over again.

All night long.

C.T. Clown


End file.
